You and Rafe have never been good at the emotional part. You’ve tried, more than once. But every time you get close to calling it something real, it falls apart. Still, there’s one thing you are good at together — touch, heat, want. And tonight, you want him to remember that.

The party is loud, the kind that blurs into smoke and cheap cologne. Bodies pressed together, music thumping through the walls. Rafe’s here. You spotted him the second you walked in. He’s got that look — cold, unreadable — but you know him too well.

He’s watching. And you’re going to make him feel it.

Lately, he’s been ignoring you. Not answering your late-night “come over?” texts. Leaving you on read like he didn’t spend last weekend with his hands all over you. Fine. If he wants to act like nothing’s there, you’ll show him what that feels like.

So you dance. You grind against guys whose names you don’t bother asking. You laugh too loud at jokes that aren’t even funny. You let hands wander across your hips, your back, your thighs. You accept drinks, lean in close, press lips to ears when you talk.

You feel his eyes. They burn. He’s watching. God, half the guys in the club are.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom, partly because you actually have to pee, mostly because you need a second. In the mirror, your cheeks are flushed, lipstick faded.

You reapply, run fingers through your hair, spritz perfume on your neck. Your phone buzzes.

“Rafe: Get your ass in my car now.”

You bite your bottom lip. Tap the heart on his message. You know exactly what this is. The tension. The punishment. The craving.

You walk back out like a queen, chin high, ignoring every guy who thought they had a shot. You gave them just enough to dream about. Nothing more.

Outside, the night air slaps against your bare skin, cool and sharp. You see him before he sees you — leaning against his car, cigarette between his fingers, jaw clenched tight. His eyes find yours. You don’t stop walking.

“Miss me?” you say, voice soft, a little cruel.

He doesn’t smile. “Shut the fuck up and get in the back y/n.”

You giggle, because that’s his way of saying you drive me insane. You open the door, slide into the back seat, cross your legs. You wait.

He takes two full minutes before flicking the cigarette away and joining you. The second the door shuts, the air shifts.

“You think you’re funny? Letting those guys touch you?” He mumbles wiping his mouth.

“Didn’t see you stopping th—”

But he shuts you up with his mouth. The kiss is nothing like gentle. It’s fire and fury and that sharp edge of jealousy that you knew was hiding just beneath his skin.

His hands are everywhere – gripping, pulling, claiming. Your dress hikes up without resistance. His teeth catch your bottom lip, and your nails scrape down his back. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t need to. His body says it all.

Ten minutes blur. He’s in you, and your back arches. Your moans fill the fogged-up car, and it’s not sweet or romantic – it’s needy, frantic. His hips slam into yours with intention, like he’s reminding you who you belong to, even if the words never leave his mouth.

And the worst part? You love it.